Wild Geese

by Caroline Pignat

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Murph, about who I am.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Kit or Kenny, ’tis all the same. I know who you are.”

  “Rest now,” I say. “I’m going to check this tent for our families.”

  But he won’t let go of my hand. Instead, he lowers his voice. “Keep clear of those Lynch lads, Kit. By the look of Henry Lynch, he’ll do what he likes whether he has the law on his side or not.” He stops to catch his breath and glance around at the sleeping bodies by us. “Watch yourself.”

  He closes his eyes for a moment. The talking has worn him out. “If you see them, my Joe and wee Brigid … if you see them before I do, Kit, would you tell them they’ve got all they need. Sure, haven’t they the Murphy spirit? Tell them that.”

  I promise him I will. Though I doubt I’ll see them in here if they’re not sick. From what Dr. Benson said, Tom and Henry Lynch could be in this tent. I look over my shoulder where the sick, the dying, and the dead lie in long, rank rows. Most suffer from dysentery as well as fever and are too weak to do anything but wallow in their filth. If the Lynches are here, they’re in no shape to pursue me. Still, I have to be careful.

  I drag myself to my feet and wander up and down the rows of people. There must be over a hundred. Some ask for water or about their own missing families; most just lie in the grip of the fever, moaning and unconscious.

  “Water … please ...” A hand grabs my leg. “Kit?”

  It’s Tom Lynch. Without even thinking, I jerk my foot away and get ready to bolt. But a second look at the state of him tells me he’s no threat. He’d no strength in his grip; sure, he can barely raise his head. His face is flushed with fever; it covers his body, as though he’d rolled in a nettle patch. The people all around him are strangers, most unconscious.

  “Water, Kit … please … I ...”

  A part of me wants to stand there and watch him burn for what he did to my house. My family. He threw that torch onto our roof. He burned my home right before my eyes. The Lynches kept me off the Dunbrody, separated me from Mam, Jack, and Annie.

  “Where is Henry?” I ask, looking around. The stranger lying next to Tom is dead. His vacant eyes stare up after his spirit. From the look of Tom, he’s not far off himself, but Henry Lynch is nowhere to be seen.

  “Gone.” Tom closes his eyes and swallows. He grimaces from the pain. “He didn’t want to catch it.”

  It doesn’t surprise me to hear that Henry would abandon his own. Kneeling, I raise Tom’s head in my hand and hold the cup to his chapped lips, for he hasn’t even the strength to take it himself. Most of it spills down his chin. He coughs and I lay his head back. His hair is sopping wet, the black curls stick to his forehead.

  “I had to find you ...” he says, gripping my hand like a drowning man.

  “I’m not going back to jail. You can’t—”

  “No, Kit,” his eyes strain to hold on mine. “I wanted to see you, to tell you … I’m sorry … for everything.”

  Sorry, says he. Like that makes any difference to me. Empty words, now.

  “The day you left Ireland aboard the Erin,” he continues, “I told Henry I saw you. I thought he’d give up the hunt once he knew you’d left the country.” His breath is shallow. All this talk is burning up what little energy he has left. “But Henry wants—”

  “Revenge,” I finish for him.

  He shakes his head. “Da put a reward on your head. A big one. Used our inheritance money.” He pauses to catch his breath. “Henry won’t stop until that money is his.”

  So that was why Henry came after me. He’s to bring me back to Ireland if he wants his inheritance. Lynch must have known what sort of animal he was unleashing on me, for Henry’s greed is worse than his temper. He won’t rest until I’m behind bars again. Not if my freedom costs him his inheritance.

  “You came all this way to tell me that? To warn me?” I ask, remembering the dreadful journey.

  “No.” He grips my hand in both of his. “I came for you, Kit. I haven’t stopped thinking of you. I had to tell you I’m sorry and … and … that I care about you.”

  I can’t speak. I’d waited so long to hear him say those words, but not like this. Not here. Not now.

  “Tom, I—”

  “I know what you did. I forgive you. I do.”

  I pull my hand away. “But I’m not sorry, Tom.” Only sorry I didn’t kill his father and his brother, too, come to think of it.

  I look away.

  What sort of monster have I become?

  “Kit, forget about the past.”

  I don’t think Tom has much of a future. Days, maybe, if that.

  “If you can’t give me your love,” he pleads, “will you give me your forgiveness, then?”

  Maybe if I’d found my family I could. Maybe if I knew they were alive and well.

  I look at the boy of my dreams lying in the mud, begging with his eyes. But I’ve neither love nor forgiveness for him, and I cannot give what I haven’t got.

  “A cup of water, Tom. ’Tis all I have to give you.”

  And leaving the tin cup in his trembling hand, I turn and walk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I hand out cup after cup of water, asking anyone that’s awake for information, but no one knows anything about the Dunbrody. Hours later, I kneel between Murph and Mrs. Ryan; I can hardly hold myself up.

  “They’re not in this tent but my family is on this island, Murph. I feel it. They must be in one of the other tents.” I look at the door a few feet away. It seems like miles. “I’m going to look for them.”

  Murph takes my hand. “Will you stay here with me, Kit?”

  I want to leave, to start my search. I don’t want to waste another moment. But I’ve barely the energy take one more step. Besides, Murph needs me. I lie beside him.

  “We made it, Murph. To Canada, just like you said. Thank God, that great journey is over.”

  “The great journey is over,” he repeats, a smile warming his words. “And so begins another.” He weakly squeezes my hand.

  I open my eyes, relieved to have a clear head. My body, though stiff from sleeping on the damp ground, is free from the fever’s shiver and ache. I turn to see how Murph is, but he’s gone. So is Mrs. Ryan. In fact, the whole place seems much less crowded, though the orderlies and a few sailors are carrying in new patients and laying them in the empty spaces. Father Robson’s rosary beads lay in the dirty straw where Mrs. Ryan had been. I pick them up and put them in my pocket for safekeeping. After a half-hour, Murph still hasn’t returned.

  A young sailor carries in a woman and lays her next to me.

  “Oh, that’s my friend’s place,” I say, but the sailor makes no motion to move the woman elsewhere. Instead he turns to leave.

  “She can’t stay there.” I stand and follow him to the door as he pulls the tent flap open. A village of tents sprawls before us. Near two hundred of them. I grab his thick arm, stopping him. “Are they ...” my mind staggers at the sheer numbers, “... are they full of sick passengers, too?”

  He nods. “Aye. So are those sheds.” He points at a few long buildings. “They’re stacked in bunk beds in there.” He clenches his mouth. “You’re better off here, and not like the wretched souls in the bottom bunks.” He shakes his head in disgust. “The sheds, the tents, the hospital, even the chapel is crammed with sick. We’ve dozens of ships to unload and more arriving every day.”

  We stand for moment, speechless, as the reality of it all washes over us. So many sick. So many dying. And we are as powerless as two children trying to stop the tide.

  I can’t save them all, but I’ll be damned if I don’t save my own. “He’s coming back,” I say. “You’ll have to move that woman. My friend, Murph, will be back soon.”

  The young sailor looks at me. “They don’t come back here. There’s only two places your friend could have gone.” He points to the right, beyond the village of tents, across the bay to the east end of the islan
d. “If your friend got better, then he’s over there at the healthy side.”

  Murph wasn’t well enough for that. Not yet.

  “Otherwise,” he nods to the left.

  I step out of the tent and follow his gaze up the muddy field, past the log fence. In the distance, beside the mounds of dirt, two men lean on their shovels while four others toss up clods of earth from inside a trench. A wagon emerges from the road through the bushes to meet them, its bed piled high with newly made and newly filled coffins.

  I close my eyes and turn to the east.

  He’s there. Healthy. Reunited with Joe and Brigid. He has to be. I won’t believe anything else.

  The sailor starts down the gravel path towards the wharf.

  “The Dunbrody!” I call. If anyone knows about ships, it’s him. “Have you seen her? Has she arrived?”

  “Yes,” he answers and my breath catches in my throat. “She arrived over two weeks back. I think some of her passengers are still in that tent up the hill.”

  Bolting from my tent, I stagger along the path, past tent after tent to the farthest one. The journey nearly kills me. My heart and head are throbbing as I bursting through the entrance.

  “Mam!” I cry out, chest heaving. “Mam, where are you?”

  An arm raises in reply, then another and another as every mother answers. My soul aches at the sight of so many families torn apart. In pleading voices, they call their children’s names. But no one calls mine.

  I pick my way through the sickly bodies, scanning gaunt faces, searching for Annie’s curls, calling Jack’s name. “Jack! Jack Byrne!”

  “Stop that!” The lone nurse grabs my arm. “Quiet yourself. You’re disturbing the patients.”

  “Jack!” I cry, pushing past her. “It’s me! It’s Kit! Are you in here?”

  “I’m calling the soldiers,” she warns as she exits.

  “Who are you looking for?” a woman asks. She’s rocking a child.

  “My family. They were on the Dunbrody.”

  “I sailed on that ship,” she says. “What was the family name again?”

  “Byrne. Moira Byrne is my mother. Jack’s twelve and my sister Annie is five. From Killanamore.”

  “Ronnie, do you know any Byrnes?” the woman calls over to a man up the way.

  “Byrne?” he says, rubbing his chin and looking upwards.

  “From near Wicklow?”

  “Yes! Yes! That’s us!” I can hardly breathe. “Have you seen them?”

  “There’s a lad two rows over. I think he’s a Byrne, if memory serves me right.”

  “Jack!” I cry, scrambling over the ragged piles and gaunt limbs. I have to see. I have to know.

  And there he is. Jack. My Jack.

  He’s like a small scarecrow in his tattered clothes, nothing but skin and bone. A splattering of rash travels his arms and neck. Dark circles cup his eyes as he leans on another boy to stand.

  “Kit?” he says and reaches for me.

  “Jack … I found you!” I cry as I run to him and wrap my arms around him. We stand holding each other for ages. I don’t want to let him go. Ever. Even Jack is clinging to me. “’Tis all right. I’m here now. Kit’s here.”

  “You look like a boy,” he finally says, wiping his eyes and stepping back. He grins. “And a watery slip of a one at that.”

  Seeing him, being with him, makes me feel almost whole again.

  “Oh, Kit,” he says, “when we left New Ross without you, we thought the Lynches got you. We thought ...”

  The soldier appears with the nurse and, seeing the joy of two ragged boys reuniting, chastises her for dragging him all this way for nothing. She scowls at us and goes back to her work.

  I look behind Jack and around at the faces nearby. I don’t recognize any of them. “Where’s Annie?”

  “She left on a steamer ship a few days ago.”

  “What? A steamer? Where? Why would Mam take Annie and leave you?”

  “Annie’s not with Mam, Kit,” Jack explains. He speaks slowly. “They took the healthy children away. To orphanages.”

  “An orphanage?” I pause. “But Annie’s not an orphan.” As the words leave my lips, I see the sorrow on Jack’s face.

  “We’re orphans, Kit.”

  Orphans.

  The word sounds so terrible, its meaning too heavy to hold on our tired shoulders.

  “No, Jack. Don’t. Don’t say it.” As if saying it makes it real.

  “I’m sorry, Kit,” he says, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Mam’s gone. She died four days ago.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It hurts to think of her. To think she’s gone. Instead, I throw myself into caring for Jack. Doing what Mam would have done for him were she here. I don’t leave his side. He’s weak, still battling the fever, but at least he is no longer alone. His friend Connor is a nice lad, a grand help, but I’m here now. I’ll take care of Jack.

  The rash goes white when I press on it, so it isn’t a bad case. Not if it’s cared for early. Sure enough, a day later, the fever breaks; he’s taking soups and growing stronger. I have no more symptoms, thank God. In another few days, we’ll be well enough to leave this cursed place and go find Annie. We will be together again. All of us. Just like Mam would have wanted.

  “You’re looking better, Kit,” Father McGauran says. I wish I could say the same for him. He hasn’t the fever, but he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

  He leans over and feels Jack’s forehead. “How is he?”

  I’ve been picking the lice from Jack’s clothes and hair while he slept. Lizzie always said fevers often followed them. I don’t know if it makes any difference or not, but picking the nasty buggers makes me feel like I am doing something, and it stops some of his itching.

  “Where is Dr. Benson?” I ask. He usually does the rounds in this tent while Father McGauran hears confessions and gives last rites.

  Father McGauran clears his throat and wipes his sweaty forehead. “Sadly, he has caught the fever. A serious case. He is in one of the hospitals.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me the danger in which these men and women put themselves to save us. Irish or Canadian, priests or pauper, soldiers or sailors, ditch diggers or doctors—the disease played no favorites. Any one of us could die from it.

  “Will he recover?” I ask.

  “I have given him his last rites. We’ve done what we can. It’s in God’s hands now.” But the look in his eyes makes me think Dr. Benson hasn’t long in this world.

  “He should have left on the steamer,” I say, thinking of his decision to stay. “He wasn’t sick from the journey.”

  “But by staying, Dr. Benson saved many lives,” Father McGauran says, “even if it cost him his own.”

  I don’t argue with him. Sure, isn’t he himself doing the very same thing? Bishop’s orders or not, I’d be on the first steamer out of here if it was me. Miles away, just like many of the workers eager to be off this death island. ’Tis supposed to be an entry into Canada, not an exit to the afterlife.

  Father McGauran kneels down beside me. “You’ve recovered. Tomorrow you will be sent upriver on the steamers.”

  “But I can’t—” I blurt. There is no way I’m leaving Jack. Ever.

  Father McGauran holds up his hand. “Perhaps we can help each other. Many nurses have quit and Dr. Douglas, the Superintendent here at Grosse Isle, said to hire who we can. But the priests and I can find no one willing to stay and work.”

  It doesn’t surprise me.

  “You can stay in this tent and be close to your brother,” he adds. “And I can pay you. It isn’t much, but it is something.”

  I need money. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “I will,” I finally say. “But only until Jack is well.”

  Father McGauran smiles and shakes my hand. He holds it then and pauses. “Since I’m here, would you like to make a confession?”

  I suppose my face is filthy with guilt. Bad enough I tried to kill a ma
n. Worse yet, I’ve no shame nor sorrow about it. No doubt, the sin emanates from me like fever rot. But the hammering of coffins, the sight of so many in sorrow and grief, the stink of sickness and death, it overwhelms me. I can’t confess my sins when I wish I’d poisoned every rotten-hearted landlord that caused this cursed event.

  What sort of a landlord lets this happen to his people?

  What sort of a God does?

  I blush and look away from Father McGauran, afraid he’ll see my dark thoughts.

  “No, no thank you, Father,” I whisper, careful not to wake Jack. “The sick need you more.”

  “Sickness comes in many forms,” he says, though I know the truth of it. He pats my hand. “Hold on to your faith, Kit. God is greatest in our weakness.”

  But his words don’t matter. We are getting stronger, Jack and I. I’m going to save my family and I don’t need anybody’s help.

  Not even God’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Over the next few days, I tend to the people in Jack’s tent. My clothes are soaked with sweat as I carry food and water to the patients. Father McGauran tells me it’s only mid-June, yet. Surely, it can’t get any hotter. ’Tis already a living hell.

  I’ve given Jack the last of my herbs from Lizzie. But for the other poor souls I can only give cool cloths for their hot faces and cups of cold barley water or lemonade. Be it their fever or the cursed heat that smothers us all, they can’t get enough to drink. Some get hot gruel and meat, if they have an appetite. But many are hungry for nothing. They stare listlessly at the canvas roof, starved of everything, even the will to live.

  There is no news from the east end of the island. Father McGauran tells me they, too, are in quarantine, for the fever didn’t always show signs at first. If they are well enough after the ten days, they head up the Saint Lawrence to towns on the mainland. It’s been over a week since the Erin arrived, since I saw my friends. I wonder about Billy, Brigid, and Joe. But most often, my thoughts turn to Mick.

  Where is he? How is he? Will I ever see him again?